Not the Only Mudblood
by whitetiger91
Summary: "She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, sorry for not believing that he too felt what it was to be a 'Mudblood'." A desperate moment allows Hermione to realise that she wasn't the only one to fall victim to her blood. One-shot written for the HPFC forum 'Every Letter has a Story' challenge.


**Not the Only Mudblood**

**_A/N: I do not own anything from the world of Harry Potter._**

**_This one-shot of sorts was written for QueenRayne's 'Every Letter Has a Story' challenge on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum. This week's character was Hermione, and our task was to write a fic that paired her with a character that started with any of the letters within her name. There was an option for easy or hard, and as such I picked hard: the condition being that 'H' (headcanon character) was chosen for me. Hence, I have tried my hardest to write a fic about a relationship (more on the platonic side) occurring between Hermione Granger and Dean Thomas. I hope I did this justice. _**

**_Please note, I am currently in process of looking for a beta to help with any mistakes (putting this up in case I lose power or internet connection before the end of the week when this is due). I am not particularly happy with the cheesy ending, and I swear it was much better in my mind- there was a lot of potential, I felt, to connect the two with their shared Muggleborn status, which I could not quite reach yet. Oh, and yes, I do realise that Hermione isn't really that self-absorbed- she does care about her peers and knows they have their own problems, this is just a moment where her emotions get the better of her (we all have these moments lol)._**

**_Nevertheless, I do hope you enjoy my take on their relationship/ friendship._**

**_3154 words_**

* * *

**-1998-**

He was the epitome of every Gryffindor; the way he stood so stoically, his square jaw set in determination not to cry out. She knew that he would not give them the satisfaction of begging for mercy, nor would he even contemplate giving away Harry's true identity. He was a Muggleborn and a runaway, yet only now did she realise how proud of that fact he was.

"Get a move on, ya filthy Mudblood. Di'nt think ya were smart 'nuff to tell me if this is tha Potter boy," one of the men pushed him into the huddled group, ensuring he couldn't escape his roped binds.

Through watery eyes Hermione watched as one of the snatchers clipped the back of Dean's head. She winced, knowing that the blow would have caused him pain; none of the men, it seemed, knew how to clip their nails. Still, her peer stood tall, biting back the retort that was formed on his full lips. He was smarter than she ever gave him credit for, knowing which battles to fight- clearly he was intelligent enough to know that answering back would only anger the grubby men more.

As she too was roughly pushed into the group, she was able to get a closer glimpse of the boy. His dark skin shone with pale scars, evidence of the struggles he had faced when roaming the English countryside to escape from the Death Eater's regime at Hogwarts; some of the marks appeared to be fresher than others, still red from when the snatchers had caught him. She wondered why they hadn't yet killed him for his blood status, realising that Ted Tonks was not with him; his presence replaced by a deep gash across Dean's left shoulder. Further studying of his form showed that the boy's usually shiny hair was matted with mud, and his usually fit physique was now lacking any muscle.

It was then that he looked into her eyes; brown meeting brown, and she realised that it wasn't only physical abuse that he had suffered from. Though he refused to cry, she could see the emotional pain running through him, feel the mental exhaustion radiating off him. She knew that he would never see whomever he had left behind to protect, assuming that they were still alive- his parents, perhaps, or his siblings? Or perhaps it was only Muggle friends and neighbours. It didn't matter- she knew that, like herself, he had sacrificed any relationship with them so that they would not become victims of the Pureblood cause. It was killing him, more than any torture could, all because he was a Muggleborn.

She wished her mouth wasn't so dry, that she was not shaking in fear for the lives of everyone standing with them. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, sorry for not believing that he too felt what it was to be a 'Mudblood', sorry for everything she said over a year before.

* * *

**-1996-**

Disappointed was a weak word to describe what she currently felt. Disenchanted, thwarted, frustrated- they all meant the same thing, yet none of them could adequately explain her thoughts towards her exam mark. Sure, she had received an 'O' on it- if it was anyone else, they would have been jumping in joy right now- as a matter of fact, she heard the distinct squeal of Padma Patil as she, too, received a high grade. But she wasn't one of them, she wasn't even above average; she was the top of the class. Yet the small mark to the side of one question blemished her perfect record, drawing attention away from the top of the page.

She stared at the seventh question, 'Name five famous Muggle sportsmen or sportswomen and the sports that they are associated with'. A small cross in emerald ink glittered up at her mockingly from its position on the crisp, white parchment. Really, what kind of question was that? How could the Professor expect anyone to answer it- even her Muggle parents would not have been able to write down a single name, let alone five?

The second option for the question, though slightly easier, was nonetheless just as redundant to know in her opinion. 'Outline the specific details of a popular Muggle sport of your choice'- now really, why was that even relevant to the studies of Muggles? She had, of course, attempted to write a few lines about tennis, having played it once before in primary school and not wanting to leave a question unanswered; however, her answer of hitting a ball back and forth did not seem to suffice, earning her no marks for that particular question.

Taking a deep, calm breath, she tried to focus on the positives. It was only the half-term exam, and she had almost six months left to work harder. She would simply focus on her many strengths, and find a way to extend her responses so that her weakness for sports was not as obvious. She could revise on Thursday afternoon, giving her three days to come up with a steady study schedule.

Placing her ink pot and quill into her satchel carefully, she sat up straighter and waited to be dismissed.

"Well done, well done all of you!" Professor Burbage beamed at the nine of them, "fantastic results! Next week we will be discussing the television again and the media's role in the changing of opinions towards Muggle conflict. However, before you all leave, we should offer a big congratulation to the student who came first in this exam."

Hermione felt heat rush up to her cheeks. She never tired of hearing the professor's praise, especially when Ravenclaw students would hear it and ask her why she was not sorted into their house- it made her feel as though she really belonged at the school. Modestly pretending to fix the strap on her bag, it took a moment before the professor's next words penetrated her mind.

"This student managed to score 100%- the first anyone has in this class for a formal examination."

One hundred per cent? Surely the professor was just being nice, forgetting about her little mishap with question seven; after all, ninety-seven percent was pretty much the same if one thought about it.

"Well done Mr Thomas, well done!" Professor Burbage clapped her thin hands together, inviting her students to do the same.

Thomas? Dean Thomas? She subtly tried to clean her ears out, knowing that she had misheard. No one, especially Dean, had ever beaten her on an exam. Ever. Surely this was a mistake, perhaps the Gryffindor had cheated? She didn't know him very well, only that he seemed all too eager to be placed on the Quidditch team like every other male in her house, as well as being Ginny's current boyfriend. He was nice, she supposed, and wasn't nearly as thick as Crabbe and Goyle, but surely he was aided somehow? He might have had the Half-Blood Prince's Muggle Studies' textbook and received an answer from there; that could be it. She refused to believe, Muggleborn or not, that he knew more about Muggles than she did.

She politely clapped along with her peers as they thumped Dean on the back, all the while wondering how he could have bested her. The sports question was probably a given- all the boys she had known before Hogwarts were beyond obsessed with Rugby, she wasn't naïve to think that he wouldn't know it. But the other questions? She highly doubted he would know the history behind the development of Muggle medicine, nor would he have known the finer points behind the development of photographs.

As the class clambered out the door, she graced the boy with a smile but did not offer anything more. She had to get to the library now; there was no time to wait for Thursday to roll around.

Pushing her way through the throng of students chatting amicably in the hallways, she tried to resist sprinting to her comfort zone. Given that there were only eight other students taking the subject, it was highly unlikely that she would need to compete for the books she wanted. However, she knew that the library had very limited information to offer, at the very least information that was detailed and accurate, and she wasn't willing to risk waiting to find out which topics she'd need to gain outside information on.

As soon as she reached the building's comforting doors, she allowed her pace to slow. Ensuring that she did not look at all flustered, she pushed the door open and strode purposefully towards the shelf containing tomes on Muggle knowledge. There weren't many titles that appealed to her, with only several volumes on transportation, technology and fashion appearing to hold any relevance to the present. Selecting a rather heavy book and frowning at the comical lettering on the cover, _Not Quidditch, You Say? A Guide to sports even Squibs can use_, she moved to her favourite desk.

She would start with her weakest subject. Unscrewing her bottle of ink, and taking a few seconds to indulge in the wonderful smell of the fresh sheet of parchment she had selected, she artfully wrote the title of her notes. She would be referring to these notes for the next six months, no doubt, and she wanted to make sure that they were perfect.

Tapping the quill to her cheek, the soft feather tickling her face, she wondered what the best way to organise them would be. She could always group them into female and male dominated sports, or perhaps by the country they were founded in. Or, perhaps it would be better to list the sports by the size of the balls they used, or the number of players involved.

Deciding to open the book to see how they organised their content, she was immediately appalled by the site that befell her. In large, bold letters, someone had defaced the titlepages of the book. Her suspicions that the horrible writing occurred throughout each page was confirmed as she hurriedly flipped through it. Looking for Madame Pince, she realised she needed to clear up the damage before any of the younger students came across it- after all, what kind of prefect would she be to leave it?

Unfortunately, the various spells she tried to banish the slanderous writing would not work, not even a particular version of _scourgify_ that she had invented to clean up her essays.

"Mudbloods will die. Muggles are scum. Kill all Muggles. Huh, they even went to the trouble of drawing a Dark Mark did they?" a rough voice spoke behind her, startling her out of her thoughts.

Turning around, she saw that Dean Thomas was leaning over her, his head angled to the side as he contemplated the graffiti.

"I suppose they did. It's a pity the loser didn't write their name along with it, they could at least show me how to get rid of it," she grumbled, trying to scratch at the black ink with her nail.

"Yeah, I was hoping to use the book to see what they said about football. Not sure they would've included Manchester United in it though," he gave her a lop-sided grin.

"Mhm."

She didn't particularly feel like discussing anything with him at that moment, least of all sports. She knew that he probably realised that she would have gotten at least one of the questions wrong, and didn't want to let him know that it was sports. Regrettably, it seemed that he had already picked up on it.

"Ah, great results on the test by the way, I knew you'd get an Outstanding. Really, I thought you would have come first," he stood there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.

"Thanks," when he continued to stand there, she added, "congratulations to you too."

"Oh, uh, yea, it was unexpected. I don't suppose that you, uh, would like any help on sports? It's just, well, I'm a huge fan of that topic, and I noticed you reading this, and I just thought…"

"How sweet, Thomas here is giving know-it-all Granger study tips," a familiar voice sneered from behind them. "How does it feel to know that he beat you in an exam?"

Hermione turned around, ready to tear into Malfoy and his thugs. It was bad enough that Dean thought she needed help with her studies, let alone the fact that Malfoy had overheard.

"For your information, I do not need help."

"Looks like you do. It's a shame, isn't it boys? They really are more stupid than we give them credit for, not even knowing that much about their kind. The Mudblood doesn't even know what Muggles do for fun," he looked to his cronies, allowing them to guffaw loudly.

Madame Pince stalked by, pressing a bony finger to her equally thin lips to hush them. When she disappeared around the corner, he signalled for the boys to follow him.

"Good thing they'll be wiped out shortly," he tossed over his shoulder, smirking at the enraged look she bore.

Dean made to move towards them, raising his curled fists, as she stood up. Throwing her things angrily into her bag, she pushed past him- she was in no mood to deal with any chivalrous attitude from the boy who caused the trouble in the first place.

"Thanks, but I can handle my own studies."

"Wait, I didn't mean that you couldn't-"

She stomped out of the aisle, intent on finding another place to study, preferably away from Malfoy and Dean. The common room was a no-go zone, seeing as Ronald had decided that it was perfectly acceptable to lock tongues with his precious 'Lav-Lav'. Perhaps the Astronomy tower would be free, given it was not quite dark out and no classes were scheduled on a Monday night.

She had almost reached the exit when she felt a hand grab her arm and force her to spin around.

"Wait, I didn't mean to insult you or anything," Dean looked at her worriedly, his hand still resting softly on her arm.

A few curious students nearby paused in their perusal of their own books, evidently jumping at the opportunity to stop their work to observe the scene before them. Hermione felt her cheeks burn, and tried to shrug him off.

"You were implying that I was not capable of doing my own work," she hissed, trying to avoid being overheard by their audience.

"No, I wasn't, I was just offering to-"

"and furthermore, I don't need your help with Malfoy."

"He shouldn't have called you that…word. I hate it when it's used," she continued to seethe, and so his next words seemed to falter, "I, I just thought we could study together, especially when not many students appreciate Muggles."

"Thanks, but I'm fine- I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be though! It's a horrible term."

"Well, I'm sure much worse will happen."

"So we should stick together then," he persisted.

She was beyond annoyed now. Not only had he insinuated that she could not manage her studies, he seemed to think that she could not handle a few taunts. Sighing loudly, she tried to exhale some of her anger.

"Look, I appreciate that you're trying to help, but it's not necessary. You have no clue what it is like to be known as a 'Mudblood'- no, you don't. I know your parents are Muggles, but you don't have to constantly deal with the pressure of fitting in here, to prove yourself. You have it fairly easy with your popularity placing you equal with the students; you have no reason to feel inadequate. Meanwhile I have to deal with the name thrown at me whilst trying to ensure that I keep up to date with my knowledge of this world. So, if you don't mind, I would like to go and study, by myself."

The expression he wore was a mix of shock and anger, but she did not give him time to respond. Heaving her satchel strap so that it did not leave a mark on her should from its weight, she stormed out of the building.

She could not believe that he would try to understand what she was feeling at that moment. Not once had she seen him bullied for his blood status, nor had she ever heard any bad remarks about him pertaining to his parentage. Unlike the way they treated her, the Slytherins themselves wouldn't even bad-mouth the boy; the most they ever did was roll their eyes at him on the rare occasion that he earned Gryffindor a few house points. She was fairly certain too that Blaise Zabini, a distant member of Malfoy's Pureblood club, was quite civil with the boy.

How dare he pretend that they were alike? He was safe in both worlds, yet most days she didn't fit in either. He would never know what it truly felt like to be a Muggleborn.

* * *

**-1998-**

She felt a sharp tug on her hair as Scabior pulled her face towards him. She could see the oil gleaming on his face; smell the mix of alcohol and leftover food in his yellowing teeth.

"C'mon pretty, tell me if this 'ere is Potter," he pulled her face closer to his own and she tried to stop the tremors coursing through her body.

He shook her roughly, waiting for an answer. From behind, someone nudged her back as the group were jostled by the other members of the Snatchers, causing her to fall closer to him. He smiled a sickly grin as she bit down hard on her tongue, preventing the bile from rising further up into her throat. She knew the look that was hidden beneath his cold grey eyes; he wanted her and he was close to it.

A warm hand encircled her own, squeezing it tightly as she shook her head to deny that the boy with the swelling face was indeed Harry.

As the group was jostled again and the men were ordered to take them to Malfoy Manor, she felt the hand rub her own comfortingly. Turning her head as far as she dared, she met Dean's eyes again. He was telling her that it was going to be alright.


End file.
